


Thunder in a Restless Mind

by So_Ill_Continue



Series: Shiro, Alive [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Dehumanization, Gen, Gen Work, Gladiator Shiro (Voltron), Muzzles, Platonic Relationships, Pre-Canon, Shiro (Voltron) Whump, Shiro (Voltron)'s Missing Year, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Sleep Deprivation, Unreliable Narrator, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25491493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/So_Ill_Continue/pseuds/So_Ill_Continue
Summary: Shiro is pushed one step farther and loses something vital."All too soon the hallway is opening up, expanding massively to accommodate the increased traffic, although Shiro’s still forced to dance around marching runners, and sometimes their charges, as they bustle by. Rornok’s lazy pace unexpectedly accelerates to a trot, forcing Shiro into a sudden jog to avoid injuring his jaw or nose. It hurts, to have to speed up this close to entering the Arena. All he wants is to slow down, to put off the inevitable, even if only for a few precious moments."
Relationships: Matt Holt & Shiro
Series: Shiro, Alive [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1809898
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	Thunder in a Restless Mind

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of my series _Shiro, Alive._ This story will make little sense if you do not read the first work, _Like a Grasping Soul,_ first. For full context and enjoyment, I suggest reading the second work, _Careful with that Light,_ as well, but it is not strictly needed.

Whoever said "sleep is for the weak" is a goddamn idiot, Shiro thinks as he is awoken once again by a harsh clang on his cell door. Sleep isn’t for the weak, for the vulnerable, or for the dregs of society. Sleep is a privilege; sleep is a luxury. Sleep, so obvious now that it hurts, is for the wealthy.

Shiro desperately blinks himself awake, clawing his way back from the dead sleep he had immediately fallen into after his last double work shift. He’s barely had three hours to sleep across six shifts, and although there’s no way of telling exactly how much time has passed, he’s certainly feeling the deficit. But his captors don’t care. He’s honestly not sure they even notice.

Shiro sits up, one hand already tugging the blanket away from Matt as the other shakes his drowsy friend. Matt slurs something unflattering in response and flaps an uncoordinated hand in his direction.

“Prisoners 117-9875 and 117-9874, on your feet!” barks the Galran on the other side of the tiny barred window. Shiro catches gleaming white teeth and deep indigo fur before another series of loud crashes ring through the cell. The sound reverberates in the metal room and Shiro feels like someone has clapped him over the ears. “You have four ticks before you earn yourselves a dint!”

Dint. Shiro doesn’t know if it is a mistranslation or some sort of Galran military slang, but it’s a fucking misnomer if he’s ever heard one. It sounds like getting fanged back at the Garrison, maybe with some sort of demerit attached. What it means is getting a goddamn thrashing. Shiro’s heart starts to beat faster, and he abandons the shaking in favor of simply hauling Matt bodily to his feet. His friend starts for a moment, blinking owlishly, before visibly registering the clangs rattling off the door and rapidly gaining his footing.

They hastily shuffle to the far end of their tiny closet of a cell, spreading their feet shoulder-width apart and placing their hands on their heads, noses barely a centimetre off the dirty metal wall. Shiro resists the urge to rub the sleep from his eyes. Breaking position right now is a very bad idea.

“God _damn_ it,” Matt hisses, flicking Shiro an annoyed, worried look out of the corner of his eye. “They have to let you sleep at some point! Maybe it’s for me?”

Maybe, but Shiro doubts it, although he doesn’t get the opportunity to say so. Instead, their conversation is interrupted by the heavy sounds of a lock turning, followed by the creak of the door. Not a moment later the Galran, trailed by two sentries, is entering. Shiro’s heart makes a mad dash up his throat; they are about to find out if they’d made the four-tick deadline.

Thankfully, the baton doesn’t make a reappearance to bash his head in instead of the door, although Shiro does wonder just how close they’d come. Instead, he feels the hot breath of the Galran on his neck before his wrists are snatched from atop his head and twisted behind his back. Familiar manacles close around his forearms, pinning his arms so severely that his elbows nearly touch.

They don’t touch Matt, and Shiro bites down the jealousy that tickles the back of his throat. Instead, he channels his energy into something a little more productive. Really, a plea is probably a waste of time, but he has to try. He’s so tired that his legs shake beneath him.

“Sir, please,” he ventures. It’s strange to talk to a metal wall, but he won’t risk making any unexpected movements. He’s almost too exhausted to really notice the oddness anyway. “It’s barely been a- a-” Shiro scours his mind for the right term, “ _varga_ since my last shift, and I’ve already had six in a row.”

Shiro hears something metal tinkling behind him, although it’s almost drowned out by the grunt of the Galran. “That so?” The tone is cool, disinterested, like he’s barely listening.

Shiro barrels on anyway. “Yes, sir. My species, we can’t run on so little sleep; it’s not possible, sir.”

The guard places a heavy hand on Shiro’s shoulder, prompting him to turn with firm pressure. Shiro does, in every way the compliant prisoner, until he’s face to chest with the shift runner. Except he’s not a shift runner. It’s Rornok, all seven feet plus of him.

Rornok, an Arena runner. He’s going to the gladiatorial ring.

“Well, Champion,” Rornok continues blandly, offering only a raised eyebrow in sympathy, “as my drunken bastard of a father used to say, get strong or get dead. No truer words, eh?”

It’s then that Shiro locates the source of the soft tinkling sound. Rornok’s holding onto the heavy metal muzzle, the lead already connected and jangling softly against the front hinge.

For a moment, Shiro forgets himself. He’s spent, shaking where he stands, and he’s expected to fight like this? It’s not fair. They have to let him sleep. He can’t fight if they don’t let him _sleep_.

Shiro shakes his head in denial, although his eyes never leave the muzzle. His throat tightens. “You can’t,” he croaks, backing up the half step until he’s butting up against the cell wall. “I’ll- I’ll _die_.”

Rornok just shrugs, unbothered, and makes up the distance. “Maybe. But unless you want a dint on top of your fatigue, you should focus on behaving yourself.” He raises the hated contraption until the hinge is at the proper height for Shiro’s face. The inside is red with blood, although it’s too fresh to be his own from before his meeting with Sendak. “Hmm? So what’s it gonna be?” The two sentries loom over each of Rornok’s shoulders, ready to assist at the first sign of obstinance.

Shiro closes his eyes as the muzzle is fitted against his face, as the hinge smashes against his nose, as the barely healed organ yowls in response, as his cheeks are crushed into his jaw, as the metal strap is latched and locked into place. His body is buzzing with nerves and adrenaline now and he’s trying hard not to be sick with it.

“Good boy,” Rornok praises mildly, giving a passing pat to Shiro’s head as he does. He sounds bored more than anything, maybe a little disappointed that his charge didn’t pursue the more interesting path. Shiro feels heat press behind his cheeks. The condescension alone sours his gut, but the worst part is that there’s no malicious edge to Rornok’s actions at all. Shiro can talk and walk and fight but that’s the extent of it as far as Rornok is concerned. He’s not a person. He’s not a Galran. At best, he’s a trained attack dog. Dangerous, and smart in a relative sense, but well-controlled by its masters.

Rornok turns, giving the lead a light tug to indicate that Shiro should follow. He takes a shaky step forward, casting a terrified look over his shoulder as he does, desperate to meet Matt’s eyes. He could very well be the last friendly face Shiro sees and Shiro wants one final look before he goes.

Matt’s look of horror, only barely visible over his own shoulder, does little to settle Shiro’s growing terror.

Another subdued tug turns Shiro’s face forward. The sentries fall into place behind him, ready and waiting for any last-ditch escape attempt. Few go willingly to the Arena; it’s only painful experience that marks Shiro among them.

Rornok doesn’t say anything more as they walk, leaving Shiro to his own rapidly spiraling thoughts. This is really happening. After six work shifts nearly back to back to back, he’s expected to fight for his life. God, he shouldn’t even be surprised, but fuck if he saw this coming.

Panic closes in like a physical thing. His heart is a caged bird, flapping frantically in his chest, and he can hear himself panting as if from far away. It’s hard to make out over the pulsing in his ears. His vision begins to narrow.

 _Okay, Shirogane,_ he coaches internally, making a concerted effort to draw deep, slow breaths, although they sound like gasps. _Okay, this is bad. But you’ve been in tighter spots before. You beat Myzax. Korvit. Rampage. Silver Dagger, even. You’re nearly undefeated. Nothing new here to be worried about. Adrenaline will give you the energy, you just have to play it smart and fast. No problem. You can do this._

Shiro feels himself centering, listens as the roar in his ears dies away and the frenzied thundering of his heart regularizes. Until he gets in the ring, until he sees what exactly he’s up against, there’s little else he can do to prepare. For now, staying calm and focused is his highest priority.

Shiro times his breaths with his steps, two for every inhale, two for every exhale. It’s easier than when he first started, when the claws of panic truly found their grip, but it’s still getting harder the farther they go. He’s starting to recognize the features that distinguish the outside of the Arena complex from the rest of the ship; namely, more guards in ceremonial armor, more runners with hulking aliens in tow, extensive signage in a language he recognizes as Galran but cannot actually read. Dirt and grime cover the floors – this area of the Arena sees a near constant flow of incoming and outgoing slave-fighters, all covered in filth or blood or both, which makes sanitation efforts almost impossible. Plus, the patrons will never actually step foot in this section, so who really gives a shit?

He passes one alien who very well might, given the way they’re being drug along the floor like an inconvenient bag of trash. Pinkish-purple blood trails the ground in their wake, and Shiro doesn’t have long to look, but he suspects the green seaweed-like tendrils the runner’s hand is fisted in might be their hair. The grip itself looks painful, and Shiro knows from experience that being dragged that way is excruciating, but the alien is chillingly still.

Dead, currently or inevitably. Shiro tries not to dwell on which.

All too soon the hallway is opening up, expanding massively to accommodate the increased traffic, although Shiro’s still forced to dance around marching runners, and sometimes their charges, as they bustle by. Rornok’s lazy pace unexpectedly accelerates to a trot, forcing Shiro into a sudden jog to avoid injuring his jaw or nose. It hurts, to have to speed up this close to entering the Arena. All he wants is to slow down, to put off the inevitable, even if only for a few precious moments.

Shiro jogs behind Rornok, trying to both conserve his scant energy as well as avoid a painful tug on his muzzle. The balancing act drains his focus, although peripherally he’s aware he’s passing the holding cells, the three security checkpoints, that soon he’ll be dragged into the chute itself.

Shiro’s panting again when they finally come to a stop before two Galra dressed in the same ceremonial armor he’s been seeing throughout the Arena complex. The only distinction is the quality – every piece of metal, from the elaborate violet swirls on the breastplate to the black endings on their skirt-like pteryges to the silver of their helmets gleams even in the meager purple light. The entire uniform is free of wrinkles, scratches, dents and stains, giving their wearers the odd look of newly unpackaged soldier toys. Even the stupid lilac cape pinned over a single shoulder and reaching just past the elbow looks impressively starched and ironed.

For a moment, terror makes way for anger and Shiro hates them. Hates how they talk over his head to Rornok, as if he’s too stupid to understand their words. Hates how they pluck the lead from Rornok’s lax fingers, gaining total control of him as easily as selecting fruit out of a laden bowl. Hates how he follows them into the chute like an obedient dog too beaten down to object.

He’s just too beaten down to object.

Inside the small, dank room, he can finally hear the muffled sounds of the Arena. The crowd jeers and screams and oohs and ahhs and Shiro has to almost physically bite back his renewed terror at the noise. There are beings _-people-_ fighting for their lives out there, right this instant. Soon it’ll be him.

His guards don’t waste any time prepping him for the upcoming fight. They eye him carefully before one brandishes his shock-baton while his partner removes Shiro’s bindings. Off come the shackles binding his forearms together, and he rolls his shoulders slowly, rotating every joint he can in an effort to push the feeling back in without startling his handlers. The muzzle is also removed, and he winces as it’s separated from where it cuts into his nose and cheeks. Everything hurts here; why should freedom be the exception?

In front of him, beyond the wall that is his last protector, the spectators go wild, screaming in gleeful, rabid calls for blood and gore. Muffled as it is, the words are clear: _Vrepit sa! Vrepit sa! Vrepit sa!_

Shiro doesn’t know the literal translation – it’s in High Galran, and the translator implants don’t cover that- but he’s horribly intimate with the phrase’s true meaning. _Kill. Kill that person. Kill them for the Empire. Kill them for us._

The din reaches a fever pitch, exploding in ripples and waves that hurt even through the barrier, and it’s clear that their collective wish has just been granted. It’s a sound Shiro has experienced personally, although never with that intention (the Arena is a dangerous place, and there’s only so careful one can be if he wants to survive). Once again, his fear momentarily scoots over to make room for something else, this time dreadful nausea, and he shivers with revulsion.

For the last time, Shiro checks over his body. His nose throbs with revived pain and blood dribbles from the scattering of nicks across his face. His arms ache, not only in the familiar way brought on by the manacles but something deeper too, something spurred to life from too many hours heaving heavy loads and too few hours’ sleep. His arms aren’t the only things complaining; his entire being pulses with exhaustion and overexertion, from the top of his skull down to the very soles of his feet. Although, as predicted, he doesn’t feel weighed down with it anymore – the adrenaline has taken care of that for now – but Shiro knows it won’t last long. He’ll have to be fast.

_You can do this. You can do this. Focus focus focus._

Shiro hears the muted boom of the announcer declare his title, sees the wall lift into the sky, and is blasted by the piercing Arena lights and the full force of the crowd’s thunder. He’s given no time to adjust; batons aimed at his ribs, he’s gripped by each bicep and frog-marched into the ring by the guards.

Blinking in the assaulting brightness, Shiro immediately sets to scanning the Arena grounds. Thankfully, there seem to be no surprises in store for him today; other than the hot Arena sand, he is surrounded only by a few boulders and crumbling pseudo-ruins, all of varying heights. That’s all good news – he’s agile enough to use the obstacles to his advantage and familiar enough to avoid hesitating when he does.

On the other side of the Arena another door is lifting, and Shiro’s attention immediately locks onto it. The announcer’s deep voice reverberates above him as Shiro’s opponent is revealed: Szitzizz the Slayer.

Marched into the ring in nearly the same manner, Shiro’s piercing eyes have a few precious moments to take in his newest challenger. Overall, the being’s built like some sort of elephant-sized snake – long, corded muscles bunch underneath shining red and yellow stripped scales until they branch out around its head into an azure cobra-style hood. But Shiro’s never seen a snake with so many feet, hundreds tucked into its upright torso while hundreds more propel its lower half across the ground, tail lashing in its wake. Silvery, slit eyes the size of dinner plates cover the majority of its face; there is no nose or mouth to be seen.

Shiro’s heart plummets even as it accelerates. Szitzizz is huge and powerful and, despite being quite unknown to Shiro, has earned itself a title. Shiro had hoped he would face a nobody, someone inexperienced enough not to pose a real threat, someone Shiro could maim enough to finish without outright killing them.

Those hopes are thoroughly dashed now, though. Forget about sparing another innocent life, of protecting his last threads of humanity. It’ll be a miracle if he survives at all.

The announcer rumbles something more in High Galran, and Shiro feels the hands clutching his biceps replace themselves on his shoulders. He’s pushed unceremoniously to his knees and follows the movement without objection. He allows his head to be ducked into a bow as the Empire’s anthem roars to life. He forces himself to still, to keep his pose, to slide his eyes away from the danger across from him as his bangs block his view. His heart roars in his chest and in his ears.

When the song, brimming with alien noises and conforming to a structure he can’t quite follow, finally ends, the guards release him, dropping something into the sand with a heavy _thud_ as they back away. Taking his cue, Shiro rises carefully to his feet, scooping up the discarded weapon with half a mind while he focuses on projecting strength as he faces his opponent. The sword is heavy in his hand; he’ll have to use both arms to wield it at all. Opposite him, the snake-like being does the same, untucking its rows of insectoid feet to raise its lower body off the Arena sands.

Shiro breathes in the stillness, the anticipatory silence. He is the only one as the entire Arena holds its breath.

_Three, two and-_

The buzzer blares, barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

Shiro charges. He wants to end this fast, and Szitzizz’s eyes and legs seem to be the only weak spots on its enormous scaly body. He aims for the legs first – blinding it would almost certainly be a death sentence and Shiro’s not ready to pursue that method when there’s still other more humane options available.

Szitzizz watches Shiro speed toward them, rearing high on its back most legs and extending their dazzlingly blue hood. Muscles ripple underneath its scaled armor although the being itself is startlingly silent. Then, in a movement too fast and too fluid for Shiro’s eyes to track, Szitzizz has rolled itself into an upright coil like a pill bug and is steamrolling toward Shiro with the force of a charging rhinoceros.

Shiro’s eyes widen at the unexpected move, and he has just enough time to dive to the right as Szitzizz bowls past, sand flying in its wake. He lands hard in the dirt but is able to turn it into a controlled enough safety roll to avoid skewering himself on his own sword.

Shiro has enough time to pop to his feet and turn around before the rolling Szitzizz is hurtling toward him again, at the same mind-blowing pace. This time, however, Shiro’s expecting the move. He launches himself off the ground and kicks off the half-standing stone arch to his right, sailing over his attacker perpendicular to its charge. Shiro extends the blade downward as he does so, and the sword meets Szitzizz’s scales with a harmless _chhhingg._

He lands in another roll, this one executed with skill and precision and ends with him neatly on his feet. He pants from the exertion as much as from the hot Arena lights beating down on his back. Already Shiro can feel the bone-deep fatigue begin to reassert itself, nearly making him sway in the sand. He fights it off, unwilling to reveal his growing weakness, but it’s a near thing and that lone fact is terrifying. He doesn’t have the time nor the energy to waste dodging more of Szitzizz’s attacks.

Fortunately, his opponent seems to have been unnerved enough by his last counter to abandon this method of attack, at least for now. A good distance away, Szitzizz uncoils his long, powerful body and unfolds most of its spidery legs, crouching low so that it resembles more of a centipede than a snake.

It stalks forward and begins to circle, its slit-pupil eyes never leaving Shiro. Shiro matches its pace, although he doesn’t raise his weapon, unwilling to risk his arms shaking until the attack actually begins. In the distance, he hears the spectators boo and heckle and jeer. They’re restless for blood in the so far bloodless match. Shiro will have to remedy that soon, unless he wants some new element added into the mix by the Arena overseers.

Considering the last shakeup had been flying swarms of football-sized stabbing insects, he very much does not.

As suddenly as he can, Shiro flings himself into action, dashing for the legs nearest Szitzizz’s head. There’s a moment of confusion as he watches the being rear onto its foremost legs before what feels like an elephant’s trunk smashes into his side.

All the air rushes from his lungs as Shiro pinwheels like a starfish, cartwheeling end over end until his heels catch the sand and he skids. His sword slips from lax fingers. Hot Arena sand burns him through his prisoner jumpsuit, scalding his unprotected hands and spraying his face. An eternity later, his momentum is finally put to an end when his back slams into the side of a boulder. The air is driven from his chest for the second time in the span of minutes and his head whiplashes into the rock at force.

For a moment, it is all he can do to simply lie there and marvel at how stationary his world has become compared to the chaos of before. Then he’s scrambling to his feet, eyes wide as he desperately tries to locate his opponent and the lost weapon.

He spots his challenger first, although not through any skill of his own. Szitzizz is scuttling toward him, speed nearly as high on his legs as it was with his roll. For the first time, Shiro spies its mouth as the lower section of its face splits into quarters and peels back to reveal rows of razor sharp teeth in a circular maw. Horror lances Shiro’s heart as it screams, the noise a mixture of a snake’s hiss and a warrioress’s battle cry.

Eyes returning to the sand around him, Shiro scans frantically for his sword. All around him is sand and gravel, and if it was somehow buried in the scuffle, he’s as good as dead. Szitzizz is nearly upon him when he finally spots something metal and gleaming, and he barely manages to roll in its direction before he’s trampled.

Then everything begins to move very fast. His hands plunge into the sands, locating the hilt and heaving it into his hands. Szitzizz rears onto its forelegs. The tail winds up. Shiro readies his weapon. And-

There are two heavy impacts that crash into Shiro’s beaten body. The base of the tail, smashing against his left ribcage and the rest, severed from its host, walloping Shiro’s right side as it thrashes away. Shiro’s thrown backward from the force of them, soles leaving the earth as he crashes heavily onto his back. He gasps, back screaming from the abuse and winded. An arc of cloudy, sour tasting blood whips into his mouth and over his chest.

Szitzizz screams again, this time in agony as it flops onto its side. Blood seeps into the Arena sand, quickly soaking it beyond saturation. The Arena erupts into fanfare, audience members screaming as the announcer roars Shiro’s win. Panting into the dirt, Shiro watches Szitzizz writhe.

A new type of burn erupts over his chest and arms. Instinctively, Shiro’s eyes flick up into the stands, until he locates the source of such a powerful gaze. His eyes meet another set, one natural and one prosthetic. His stomach, warm from exertion and the relief of victory, ices over.

Sendak is here. And he failed to fulfill their deal.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this work and want to see more soon, please consider leaving a comment detailing what you liked or what could be improved. I am not very confident with fight scenes, so any comments regarding that would be wonderful. Kudos and bookmarks are also greatly appreciated.


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